


Bridge

by zoodream



Category: U2, U2 (Band)
Genre: Epic Friendship, Fights, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Songwriting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoodream/pseuds/zoodream
Summary: The Edge has punched Bono only once. This is what happened.





	Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> This is my love letter to Bono and Edge's epic friendship, amplified through an imaginary romantic lens. It's an AU, in that their longtime partners aren't in this universe. And none of this actually happened, of course, except the punch. [The punch is real](https://youtu.be/2p6st-T1m7g). 
> 
> Written very casually, and as self-indulgently as possible. Many thanks to PJSideProject and BakerStMel for lending their eyeballs to reassure me that I wasn't going horribly astray.

Bono starts the conversation in the middle, as he always does.

“The bridge is working,” he tells the Edge.

He knows Edge is used to it by now. It’s one of a very long list of things Bono loves about him. 

Bono tried to write that list once, but he gave up after two hours and over sixty numbered items. To be fair, he gave up only because he was interrupted by the man in question. And he’s never been able to resist that sort of interruption from the Edge.

But right now, they’re about to hash out the finer details of a new song, and that means Bono has to focus. That means it’s out of the question to arch a salacious eyebrow at Edge when he walks a little bit closer, his footsteps quiet in the empty studio, black t-shirt snug across his capable shoulders. 

Bono does it anyway. And, of course, he begins their conversation in the middle. After so many years, he knows just how Edge will react: a long-suffering sigh, undercut by a wicked glint in his eyes. A glint that promises Edge will continue both conversations in due time: the one about the song, and the one that Bono’s eyebrow spells out all by itself.

Multi-tasking genius, the Edge. Polymath. Capable of playing an entire orchestra with both hands and one foot, and that’s because the other foot has to stomp out the beat.

“You really think it’s working?” Edge picks up his Gibson acoustic and settles into the black leather chair across from Bono’s. He unceremoniously begins to bash out the chord progression they’ve established for the verses, straightforward and blunt. (Too straightforward? They’ll argue about that later.) Next a chorus, framed like rough scaffolding. And then Edge’s chords dissolve into an arpeggio like shattered glass, and now is not the time for any conversation other than this one, the one they started when they were teenagers, the one that begins every time Edge picks up a guitar, the one they never, ever want to finish. 

“ _Fuck_ yes,” Bono tells him, and that’s the last thing he can say for a while, because Edge’s notes take him back to a time in America decades ago, and the memory shapes itself into a melody that Bono croons over the glittering snowfall of Edge’s guitar.

* * *

1981\. Truly, they’re not prepared for New Haven in November. Ireland can get cold, but the brutal, unforgiving New England air makes Dublin’s climate seem downright balmy. As the four of them shuffle down the street in search of cigarettes, wind lashes around them as if to advertise winter’s arrival at least a month ahead of schedule.

They’re in the habit of exploring tour stops in the dead hours between soundcheck and gig, but tonight their lightweight stage clothes are proving to be a poor defence against the bitter cold. They find a convenience store in the shadow of the university’s imposing stone buildings, then cut their walk short and opt to huddle in the pizza place next to the venue and share a pie and a pitcher of Coors.

“Fuckin’ freezing,” Larry complains. 

They all nod. The atmosphere is unusually tense -- for them, anyway. Bono, who (according to Adam) can’t shut up on any day with a “Y” in it, finds he’s fallen silent: maybe it’s the cold, or maybe it’s something more.

The shock of their initial success has begun to wear off, and the weight of _October_ has settled onto their shoulders like a dreary sort of albatross. No one talks about it, but they all know: this is it. They’ll either emerge from this tour an established band, or they’ll fade away, victims of the second-album slump. One-hit wonders. In ten years, if they’re lucky, they’ll reunite at a tiny Dublin club and play “I Will Follow” for the tiny crowd who still remembers them. Hell, they’ll probably play it twice.

They’ll play it twice tonight.

Edge feels this, Bono knows. More than any of them. His angular face looks pinched and serious, even as he drains the last bit of foam from his mug. His shoulder blades stretch the thin fabric of his grey blazer, his slender frame drawn up tightly, delicate wrists exposed by too-short sleeves. 

A flare of protectiveness rushes through Bono, bright like heat. _Damn it, Edge. You don’t have to carry all of us. That’s not how this works._

Bono crowds into Edge on the pizza parlor’s red plastic bench, drapes an arm over his sharp shoulders. “Edge. Get your skinny arse closer, and warm up. You’ve got no insulation. Of any kind.”

Edge’s eyes skate to his, a shy, sideways glance. He tries to look exasperated, but mostly, he just looks anxious, which is not at all Edge-like.

“I’m fine,” he insists, but he lets Bono lean in close, and refill his beer, and pile another slice of pizza on his plate. 

They finish their pitcher, and order another. As their glasses empty once more, Edge gravitates a little bit closer, seeking the heat Bono surely throws off like a furnace. Bono finds he very much doesn’t mind.

He and Edge have always had... something. A way of fitting into each other’s pockets. All four of them are close in different ways, and sometimes it’s easier to sit with Larry and ramble about nothing, or bask in the subtle brilliance of Adam’s wit, but he and Edge just... work. It’s always been Edge who can pull songs out of Bono, who understands just what to play to set Bono free. 

Which is why this gig has to be great, has to be better, the _best._ They have to be brilliant every time, because if Bono can’t keep doing this, if he can’t breathe life into Edge’s chords... well. He doesn’t even want to think about it.

And the Edge is an actual genius. The world needs to know what Edge can do.

Edge’s bony elbow knocks against his, and he ducks his head and laughs at something Adam’s said. Bono can see the thinning spot at the crown of Edge’s head, his shock of dark hair unable to hide the premature march of time. Barely twenty, but his hairline makes him look older in a way that makes Bono’s heart twist. It’s not quite fair. Edge can be hilarious, whimsical, daring, driven. He’s still gangly like a fourteen-year-old. He deserves a head of hair to match. 

Bono suddenly wants to run his hand through the dark strands that are still thick and shiny at Edge’s nape. It looks so soft. He wonders what Edge would do. Endlessly patient, the Edge. He’d probably just put up with it. God knows he puts up with the infinite flood of insanity Bono already hurls in his direction.

Edge’s hair _is_ soft, delightfully so. Somehow, Bono’s hand has strayed of its own accord -- his impulse control has always hovered between zero and none at all -- and to his own surprise, he finds he’s kneading his thumbs into the tight muscles at the base of Edge’s neck. Edge flinches in acknowledgement, but doesn’t move away, and after a moment, he leans into Bono’s touch. Bono digs his thumb into the taut skin, letting his fingers wander into the fine, feathery wisps of Edge’s dark hair.

“Mmm,” Edge murmurs, under his breath. “Right there, B. Right... there.”

And -- oh. Edge’s voice has gone slightly husky, a hint of roughness darkening its bright timbre. Bono feels all the blood drain from his face, from the tips of his toes. He wants to -- God. He’s not sure _what_ he wants to do. But he feels like a New Haven pizza parlor might not be the right place to figure it out.

He gives Edge’s neck a squeeze, and pulls his hand back. “Gotta keep you loose, Edge.”

Edge glances up at him, and his eyes crinkle. “Thanks.”

There’s no time to think about this, about Edge’s eyes, or what Bono sees there. The hour slips forward, and Bono feels the approaching gig begin to coil around him like wire, like electricity, and his thoughts burn into useless noise.

* * *

Pain explodes in Bono’s jaw.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Edge!” Adam roars, from very far away.

* * *

They finish the set somehow. Muscle memory? Reflex? Bono only remembers a wash of waving hands and the throb of his bruised jaw. 

No, he remembers more. Lurching bodies in the darkness. Sweat streaming down the back of his neck. Edge’s guitar, blistering heat in a hotter room. Larry’s pounding beat, the only thing keeping them from tumbling into the abyss. 

And then, nothing. No sound. No drums. Larry under the drum kit, wide-eyed. Larry’s hands clutching Bono’s sweat-drenched shirt.

He hit Larry -- Christ, he _did_. Adam tried to intervene, but Edge got there first. Laid into Bono with the force of a freight train. A really fucking silent freight train.

Bono’s never had much of a handle on his temper, and God knows he’s gotten into his share of scraps, but the band -- he’s never. _Ever_. For God’s sake, the band’s the only thing that’s kept him from chasing down fights as a full-time hobby in the back alleys of Dublin. This band -- these three boys -- this is Bono’s sacred space.

Except now he’s smashed it. Thrown a brick right through the bright stained glass of their trust.

And Edge, patient, unflappable, Buddha-like, Zen Master Edge -- 

Bono caught one glimpse of the Edge before Edge punched him. He’s never seen that look on Edge’s face before. He knows he never, ever wants to see it again.

* * *

Bono’s ability to talk rushes back full-force as they climb into the van for the short trip back to the hotel. He feels like shit, like he’s been poisoned by an overdose of adrenaline.

“Christ, Larry, I’m sorry,” Bono babbles, and he’s probably said it already, but he says it a few more times for good measure.“Sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking -- look, you know I lose it when I’m up there, I was somewhere else, I can barely remember -- I thought you were _gone._ ”

Fuck. They should just leave him here, leave him on the side of the road at a service station in Connecticut and move on. Edge can sing, and even better, Edge sure as hell won’t lose his head. Not unless someone hits Larry, that is.

Larry’s surly expression softens fractionally. He knows Bono, knows what Bono’s like when he sings, knows that Bono can only be held responsible for a small percentage of what he does or says on any given day. Still, he looks grave, even for Larry. “It’s just -- you just -- you _can’t_ do that again, B. Seriously. You can’t.”

“I know.” Bono runs a shaky hand through his sticky, still-damp hair. “I know.”

Adam puts a hand on Larry’s shoulder. “And we can’t have a broken drum kit, either. We’ll fix it, right?”

Larry rolls his eyes. “I can’t figure it out. It slides all over the fuckin’ place.”

“We can fix it in New York. They have everything. We’ll find a shop.”

“We’ll buy you anything you need, Lar,” Bono chimes in, wanting to cringe at the desperation in his own voice. “Gold-plated cymbals. Anything.”

Larry and Adam both smile at this, and, relief flickers through Bono’s misery. For an uncertain second, he thinks he might cry. He doesn’t deserve them. 

“I’ll take a look at it tomorrow,” Edge adds. He hasn’t said a word since the gig, and the soft, calm sound of his voice nearly startles Bono. Edge, ever the problem-solving engineer. 

The Edge, one hell of a right hook. 

His eyes meet Bono’s, and the van falls silent. 

“Thanks, Edge. That’d be great,” Larry says, at last.

Mercifully, the van lurches to a stop.

“Gonna turn in early,” Adam says, as they climb out. “It’s been kind of a weird night.”

Edge rummages for his bag under the disastrous pile of gear in the van. “That’s fine,” he says, somehow his usual, even-keel self again, even though Bono’s heart is skipping like a rabbit on speed. “Don’t think I can sleep yet. I’ll try not to wake you.”

Bono doesn’t miss the look that passes between Larry and Adam.

“Actually, I think I’ll turn in too,” Larry says, casual as anything. “I’ll bunk with you tonight, Adam?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“Okay with you, Edge?” Larry nods in Bono’s direction. “He throws his shit everywhere.”

“Don’t I know it,” Edge says, but he gives Larry a small half-smile, and shrugs. “Yeah, fine.”

Adam grins. “If he tries anything, just hit him again.”

They all snigger. Edge gives Adam a mock salute. 

Adam nods at Bono. “Get some ice on that lovely mug of yours.”

Bono laughs, trying to hide the shake that might still be in his voice. “What I need is a fuckin’ beer.”

* * *

What he gets instead is a plastic cup of Bushmill’s, courtesy of Edge’s personal supply. Thank God. After this strange, off-kilter night, all Bono wants to do is disconnect from reality, float above it like a balloon. Pretend the gig didn’t happen. Let go of this desperate, half-sick pit in his stomach and get back to the place where he and Edge are just fine, easy in each other’s company. Pretend he can’t feel the sore mark of Edge’s fist on the underside of his jaw.

Well. If anything’s going to get him there, this cup of Bushmill’s has a good chance at it.

“You save me, Edge,” Bono says vehemently, leaning back on his standard-issue motel bed and raising the glass in Edge’s direction. “Today and every day.”

Edge fills another plastic cup for himself and doesn’t meet Bono’s gaze. He gives a rueful laugh as he screws the top back onto the far-emptier bottle. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Bono ignores him. “I’m gonna drink half of this,” he announces, “and then you’re gonna tell me if the show was utter shite.”

Edge settles back on his own creaky hotel mattress and takes a hefty swig from his cup. “Ehm. All right. It was --”

“Wait.” Bono raises his cup again, then drains half of it. Well, more than half. It burns as he swallows, leaving a trail of warmth that spreads from his chest to the tips of his fingers. “Okay. Lay it on me, the Edge. It was a disaster.”

Edge looks grim.“It wasn’t our best.”

“It felt like we were chasing something, and we weren’t going to catch it. Like -- have you ever had a dream, the Edge, where you can fly, and it’s just amazing, it feels so _real_ , and then you try to do it again, and you’re running, and you can’t get off the ground? And you take these little hops, and float for a while, and you keep coming back down. That’s what it felt like. Like we were floating, and then our feet hit the ground, and we’d trip over ourselves. We just kept coming back down.”

“We do fly sometimes.” Edge lifts an eyebrow. “That’s how we got here, remember?”

Bono snorts a laugh. “Clever. You’re a clever one. Cleverer than the rest of us, that’s for sure.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

“Clever _and_ modest.”

“You’re impossible,” Edge says, and there’s more truth in his voice than he bothers to hide. 

“I _am_ impossible.” 

“A little bit impossible, yeah.”

Edge wears his default expression: placid, unreadable. 

Bono takes another hearty sip of Bushmill’s, puts his drink down on the bedside table, and rolls over to look at Edge upside-down. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

A sigh. “I don’t put up with you.”

“Ehm -- what?”

“I don’t put up with you. You’re my mate. There’s no ‘putting up’ about it.”

Upside-down, the blunt plane of Edge’s chin hovers at the top of Bono’s vision. “But --”

“You never shut up,” Edge cuts in, and his tone shifts: still soft, but surprisingly serious. “You lose your temper. You’re stubborn and you don’t sit still, but you’re also fucking brilliant, and loyal to the point of insanity. I don’t put up with you, no. I’m all in. For everything.”

Bono’s head buzzes with blood and whiskey. He has no idea what to say. “Oh. Edge.”

But Edge is already moving, sliding across his bed as if he hasn’t just said the dearest thing Bono’s ever heard. “Hang on, stay just like that. Let me see your chin.”

The room spins a little, and Bono’s pulse thumps between his ears. He can think of nothing to do but obey. He waits obediently as Edge’s deft, calloused fingertips trace the ridge of his jawline. Gooseflesh stands up on his arms. Edge’s upside-down face wavers, and his dark eyebrows crease in concentration. “We should get some ice on that. You’re gonna have a nasty bruise.”

“Is that so, Doctor The Edge? You were going to be a doctor, weren’t you?”

“That’s just what I told my parents to shut them up.”

Edge’s fingers chase away any control Bono might have had, and a tidal swell of fondness wants to burst through his chest. He hears his own voice before he’s even aware of what he’s saying.“You know, if this was a movie, I’d grab your hand right now.”

Edge laughs. He doesn’t take his hand away, though; he’s still feeling the lump on Bono’s jaw. “You’re a lunatic.”

“I know.” Bono’s voice drops to a purr. “I’d grab your hand, and we’d tangle our fingers together accidentally, and the lighting would shift, and the music would come up -- something slow, y’know, and slinky. And then we’d laugh, and -- if I was the girl, you’d lean in. And kiss me, just like this. Upside-down.”

Edge is still chuckling. “You nutter. If you were the girl. What does that even mean? What if I was the girl?”

Bono’s laugh mingles with his. “You’d still lean in.”

“What kind of films do you watch, B? The kind they show in very special theatres?”

“No, no. I’m very virtuous.”

“A regular choirboy, I thought.”

“Of course.”

They’re laughing hard enough now that Bono slips, his head sliding toward the pea-green motel carpet, and he does grab Edge’s hand after all, but it’s nothing like the movie in his head. Edge half-stands, hauls him back onto the mattress, and sits down hard next to him. The mattress creaks, protesting the added weight even though Edge is feather-light. Probably. Not that Bono’s ever thought about it.

“I told you,” Bono says, when they’ve managed to stop laughing. “You do save me every day. Repeatedly.”

Edge shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“I think _you_ might be the lunatic.”

“I won’t argue with you.”

“Edge.” Bono struggles to sit up on his elbows so he can drain the rest of his drink. He sets the empty cup back on the faux-wood nightstand with a decisive thunk. “Do we need more of this?”

“I dunno. I’m not done yet.”

Bono passes Edge his cup. “Bottoms up, love.”

Edge drains his drink obediently, and Bono sets the now-empty cup next to his. Edge settles next to Bono so they’re side by side, splayed against the feeble stack of motel-issue pillows. 

“Another round?” Bono asks again.

“Let’s wait a minute.”

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

They lie quietly, listening to the sounds of this particular New Haven motel: road noise, the room’s gurgling radiator, the occasional honk of a horn.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Edge says.

Bono lurches up on his elbows. “Why in God’s name would you be sorry? You had to.”

Edge stares at the room’s dingy popcorn ceiling. “I could’ve done something else --”

“Like hell. You stopped things before they escalated.”

“ _I_ was the one who escalated.”

“Edge. You did what you had to do. Fuck’s sake. You don’t need to apologise.”

“I’m apologising anyway.”

“Fine. Apology accepted, only because it’s not necessary.”

“Good. You’re wrong.”

“Edge. Shut up.”

Edge shuts up. A truck roars by, nearly loud enough to rattle the windows.

“You’re feckin’ strong though,” Bono mutters. “Good thing you’re on my side.”

A faint chuckle. “I don’t like fighting.”

“We can all be thankful for that. Jaysis, can you pack a punch.”

Edge doesn’t say anything, but Bono can see his mouth twitch up at the corner.

Bono rolls over to face Edge, and the room rolls a little bit with him. Suddenly everything is marvellous, overwhelmingly so. He’s here, with Edge, in their own goddamn room. They might’ve had a bad night, but no one’s kicked him out of the band. Most importantly, Edge is next to him, which is the good and true natural order of things. And for some unfathomable reason, Edge seems to _want_ to be here, next to Bono -- he’s said as much, anyway. He’s forgiven Bono for tonight’s unthinkable transgressions. They are partners again, the two of them.

Edge is here. And the shape of him, the weight of him, carves out a small hollow in Bono’s creaky motel bed. In Bono’s life. 

Bono reaches out to touch without thinking, as he often does, and traces the ridge of Edge’s bicep. Edge’s arm is loose at his side, but at Bono’s touch, his muscles tense. 

“See, look at this arm.” Bono’s words are just the faintest bit slurred. He tries to pretend they’re not. “You’re not so little, are you?”

“Who said I was little?”

“Maybe little’s the wrong word.” 

Edge shifts to face Bono, his expression a mix of exasperation and amusement.

“Well, littler than I am,” Bono amends.

“I hate to break it to you, Bono, but your perception might be skewed on this issue.”

“You’re not the one built like a rugby forward.” Bono reaches out again, traces the line of Edge’s arm, and circles his wrist with a finger and thumb. “Look, see. Look at your wrist. Lemme see your hand.”

Edge swallows. Bono watches his adam’s apple bob up and down. Then Edge opens the hand still in Bono’s clutches, fingers splayed out like a star. It trembles, just slightly, until Bono lets go of Edge’s wrist and holds his own hand up to compare. 

“See? My palm looks like a slab of meat next to yours. You might be taller, but --”

“Bono,” Edge says huskily. 

The space between their hands vanishes. Their fingers interlace. “And your fingers --”

“Bono,” Edge says again, a much softer whisper this time. Maybe it’s a plea, or a question? Bono’s lost track entirely, lost track of why they might be lying like this, face to face on a narrow strip of motel bed, close enough to see the faint freckles across Edge’s forehead.

“I -- ehm -- never mind. What were we talking about?”

“I hit you. It was stupid of me.”

Bono laughs, his voice whiskey-rough. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m gonna do another stupid thing,” Edge says, and kisses him.

Bono might have imagined a shy kiss, but he’d have been wrong. Edge may be sweet, but he’s shockingly deliberate, and wild energy burns just beneath his calm exterior. Edge tilts his head and teases Bono’s mouth open at a perfect angle, and Bono only has time to let out a heavy sigh before they tangle together in a tight, unending knot. Edge’s beautiful thin fingers run over Bono’s clavicle, then cradle the back of his head so tenderly that Bono’s chest hurts.

They can’t call this kiss an accident. It builds and swells like a melody, undeniable, like something they’ve worked on together before. It quickly becomes the only genuine thing in their dingy one-star motel room.

Gently, Edge pulls back, eyes bright with wonder and sheer nerve.

Bono, as he often does, finds his voice first. 

“That wasn’t stupid,” he says huskily.

Edge’s eyes glint. “I guess not.”

Bono feels color creep into his face. “And, ehm. That was -- coming. For a while.”

“Somehow I thought that’s what you were gonna say.”

They haven’t disentangled. Bono can’t keep his eyes from Edge’s lips, thin and so recently pink and bitten. “See, I knew it,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss Edge’s cheek. “You’re from the future.”

“Not really.” Edge’s hand wanders up the back of Bono’s neck, leaving sparks in its wake. “I just know you, that’s all.”

Bono grins, wide and devilish. Edge grins back.

“Can I --” Edge begins, but Edge’s wicked little sideways smile is just too much, and Bono lunges forward, pinning Edge back against the pillows. “My turn,” Bono interrupts.

Edge fights for control, but only for a second. It’s Bono’s idea, so Edge goes with him: an unwritten rule of their relationship. If Edge has a different idea, Bono will hear him out, too. This time Bono’s idea involves tracing Edge’s ear with his tongue and then licking wet kisses down his neck until Edge is writhing underneath him, his t-shirt riding up under Bono’s roving hands to reveal pale skin and a line of dark hair. The ridges of his hipbones jut up from the mattress, his body like an arrow beneath the sturdy shield of Bono’s ribcage.

“Mine,” Bono growls, not really knowing why, except it feels good to say it. Maybe it’s why he calls Edge by name so much. The Edge. Bono named him, after all. He named this miraculous person, and it stuck, and Edge accepted it. A small, secret part of Bono thinks that Edge likes the fact that Bono named him. Claimed him.

Edge huffs out something between a laugh and a moan.

They are breathing hard now, falling fast into a pattern they both seem to know. Things are going to happen, and quickly. Bono doesn’t need to look to know that Edge is rock-hard in his jeans. His own erection is rubbing painfully against his too-tight black trousers.

“Bono --” Edge reaches up to grip Bono’s wrist, his eyes unfocused, his expression even more naked than the strip of pale belly Bono’s just exposed. “We should think about this.”

Thinking. Edge is always going on about thinking first, especially where Bono’s concerned. _Think before you climb the scaffolding, Bono. Think before you jump off a balcony into the crowd._ Bono has to admit Edge has a point most of the time. 

The thing is, Bono’s not sure this is one of those times.

Bono sits up a bit, straddling Edge’s waist with his thighs, their cocks so close that Bono can barely stand to look. Edge swallows hard, but before he can say anything else, Bono takes the hand gripping his wrist, brings it to his lips, and kisses it.

“I think,” Bono says, “I think this is just gonna be a thing that happens.”

Edge lets out a shuddery breath underneath him. “A thing that happens.”

Bono can see Edge’s mind working: _what about. What about the others. The band. What about the fucking band._

But somehow, Bono is sure this will work. He’s sure in the same way that he’s sure someone will catch him when he jumps into a crowd. This is the two of them, and this is what they do: make things work. And even when things go wrong, even when Bono loses it completely, they always end up back together.

“It’s going to be like a song,” he says. “Like the bridge of a song, Reg. Most of the time you’re singing verses, chorus, that’s what everyone knows, the hooks. But then you step outside the verse just once, just a little bit, and that’s the bridge. And when you come back to the chorus -- it’s even better, because you went somewhere else. Everything sounds better, it _feels_ better. That’s how this is gonna be. We’ll just step away, every once in a while.”

Edge blinks at him for a moment, and then a smile spreads across his face before he starts to laugh. “Did you just -- did you just turn this into a fucking analogy about songwriting?”

Bono begins to shake with laughter, still straddling Edge’s hips, so hard his zipper might explode. He drops Edge’s hand, bends forward to kiss his forehead, slides their bodies together until they both groan. “Everything’s a song, love.”

“Oh my God, B.” Edge sounds flustered, and resigned, and to Bono’s delight, entirely happy. He catches Bono with a kiss full on the lips, one so full of electricity Bono has to break it off before he loses control entirely.

“I can never say no to you,” Edge says, his nose an inch from Bono’s. 

“You can, though.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“Ah,” Bono says, wrestling Edge’s shirt higher, enough to slip his slab of a hand up against Edge’s warm skin. “Then we’re agreed, it seems.”

Edge sucks in a breath. “Agreed?”

“We want to do this.”

Edge rolls them, tipping them sideways so they can fumble at pesky layers of clothing, his fingers tracing the tight waist of Bono’s trousers. “I have wanted to do this,” he murmurs, “for a fucking _age._ ”

Bono could fly into the sun. “Edge,” he grins, “take me to the bridge.”

* * *

“You’re right,” Edge says, leaning back at last, blue pick between thumb and two fingers. “I didn’t think so, but you’re right. It _is_ working.”

“Well.” Bono chucks his notebook on the table next to his open laptop. “If you’re saying that, we must really be onto something, because you never think anything’s working.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s a little bit true.”

A tiny half-smile. “Well. A little bit true.”

Everyone else has gone home, or maybe they’ve never bothered to come in -- Bono can’t remember. By now the band recognizes when he and Edge just need to be left alone, and today was clearly one of those days. But at last they’ve finished, at least temporarily. They’ve reached the point where they need Adam and Larry to shape this song into whatever it’s meant to be, the framework secure enough that Edge can go home and tinker with his mad scientist production toys. And then they can argue about it later, countless iterative debates about sound and meaning, until at last they let the song go. Or they pry it out of Edge’s hands, one or the other.

Edge puts his guitar back into its stand, slides his pick into his back pocket. “Did we miss dinner?”

“We can go out.”

“You want to go out right now?”

Bono shrugs. “Why not?”

“It’ll be hours. You’ll run into people you know.” Edge shakes his head. “I’ll just go home and eat.”

Bono nudges Edge’s sneaker-clad foot. “We don’t need to go out. We can order something.”

“Nah, that’s okay. You go. Don’t you have things to do, anyway?”

“What things?”

“You always have things. People to see. A world to save. You know.”

Edge has been busying himself with shutting down his laptop, but he glances up at Bono with a wry look.

Bono does have things to do. Bono _always_ has things to do. It’s a perpetual state of being, and it’s his own fault entirely. But tonight, he doesn’t much feel like doing any of it.

“My cape’s in the wash, Reg.”

A long, low chuckle. Edge stands up, wiping his palms on his jeans. Bono can read the signs: tired, hungry. And in need of some time together in a quiet room, preferably with two generous tumblers of Bushmill’s. They graduated from plastic cups to actual glass ages ago.

“That’s good to hear,” Edge says, as Bono steps closer, sidling behind Edge so he can wrap his arms around him. He drops his forehead against Edge’s solid shoulder. Edge makes a noise of pleasure and approval, and pats one of Bono’s hands. They stand together for a moment, Bono pressed against Edge’s back, a place he seeks often, and marvels that nothing much has changed despite a few decades of time and a thousand gigs, give or take a few. 

“It’s a good song, this new one,” Bono says.

Edge chuckles again, and tugs at Bono’s hand. “C’mere, you great peacock.”

Bono lets Edge pull at him until they’re facing each other, nearly eye to eye despite their height difference. Personal preference in footwear, of course. 

Nothing has changed, and so much has changed. Edge’s unshaven scruff is nearly white now, and if he tints his goatee -- well, Bono doesn’t say a word. Bono’s body has been broken a few times, rearranged, reassembled, but it works. They can still drink all night without much problem, but then again, they’re Irishmen. 

“You remember that night,” Bono says, starting the conversation in the middle. As he does. As he always will. 

Edge doesn’t miss a thing. “Of course.” The corners of his eyes wrinkle into countless sweet lines. “Have to admit I don’t remember the punch anymore. What happened after, though... yeah, I’m not forgetting that.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Mmm.” Edge ruffles the short hairs at the back of Bono’s head. “I do remember your hair was kind of ridiculous.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I was already losing mine.”

“I remember.” Bono squeezes Edge’s waist. “You were so skinny.”

“What are you implying?”

“That you’re perfect right now as you are, The Edge.” Bono pats the front of Edge’s shirt as they both laugh. Edge doesn’t tease him back, of course. He’s a highly sensitive and evolved human being.

“We were so desperate,” Edge murmurs. “In a lot of ways.”

“I’d like to think we still are.”

Edge’s arms wind around Bono, seeking, holding him in place, keeping him from flying apart, as they always do. 

“We are, B,” he says. “We are.”


End file.
